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Out of all the things Keiji had to worry about, hanahaki honestly wasn’t one he had ever expected.
It was an exceedingly rare condition — typically less than 50 cases in Japan annually. It was a disease often played out in film in some trashy drama or other, but it wasn’t something many could claim they’d actually witnessed let alone possessed it.
An illness centered entirely around unrequited love — why, it seemed like something born out of fantasy and magic, not reality. Whatever unlucky soul had the genetic predisposition for it (and doctors still didn’t know exactly where the mutation was or why it remained dormant for many) also possessed the misfortune of falling in love with someone who didn’t love them back would then start to grow flowers in their lungs.
Every case was different; some flowers seemed to be symbolic while others were just completely random, for example. Some people lived with the condition for years, treating the symptoms as one were to treat asthma or even tuberculosis. Others deteriorated so fast that they would be dead in months.
There was one known cure for the curse-like illness, and it was having your love returned. It would cause the roots in the lungs to shrivel up and then it was only a matter of coughing up the now dead pieces.
There was an experimental surgery, but the death rate was so high that almost no one even bothered with it. There were also the side effects of the surgery. It left the few survivors with traumatic memory loss, permanent lung capacity shrinkage, and an emotional state comparable to someone who had been lobotomized. It was considered cruel and inhumane to perform the surgery, but some sufferers insisted upon trying to surgically remove the flowers despite the risks.
Keiji knew that people in his family had had the illness before. He’d actually been adopted by his aunt due to his mother succumbing to the illness only months after his birth. She’d been a long term case who had lost the battle with the flowers. His aunt had raised him on stories of his mother with no mention of a father. She’d simply returned from school one day pregnant and coughing up petals. He’d been born premature, and wasn’t exactly the healthiest child growing up. Just shy of being in and out of hospitals.
Still, he’d like to think that his aunt had raised him well. He was studious — top of his class at a good Tokyo school — and performed well in sports. Perhaps, he was a bit strange and off-putting, but he’d managed to make friends all the same.
He’d tried out for volleyball because his aunt insisted that he choose something active and challenging for his required club, but also because he’d been inspired by a loud owl-like boy who had clearly loved the sport to an almost insane degree. He was loud and beautiful and Keiji so very wanted to see him shine.
Keiji wasn’t a genius setter, nothing like the likes of Miya Atsumu or Oikawa Tooru. He’d honestly consider himself more on the average side, but that was fine. It was enough for his team to be pleased, and more importantly, enough to support their ace. Fukurodani always made it to Nationals, at least while Bokuto was on the team.
Between volleyball (which was more time consuming than he would have expected), academics, managing Bokuto (because his team swore he was the owl-whisperer and the crazy wing spiker had seemingly imprinted on him), and performing his duties as his aunt’s only son, Keiji didn’t even have time to entertain the thought of love. There was simply too much going on.
It wasn’t a problem for 2 years of high school and his entire life before that.
But then Bokuto graduated and suddenly, Keiji was left behind.
At first, it hadn’t been that big of a deal. He still played as the team’s main setter although there were promising underclassmen prepping to take his place when he too, graduated. He was still top of his class. He wasn’t planning on continuing volleyball after high school, so he spent a lot of his free time (which he had because Bokuto was in Osaka) studying for entrance exams.
His life was full, so it really shouldn’t have felt so bland and colourless now that Bokuto wasn’t with him almost 24/7. It wasn’t even like Bokuto had stopped bothering him either. He still called him at all hours of the day to talk about nothing very loudly. Hell, he’d even found time to drop by when they’d run their summer training camp. The first years had been very awed to meet a pro volleyball player, especially since he was alumni and the former captain.
He’d even managed to make it for Keiji’s last game at Nationals. He’s spotted him in the crowd — he’d been impossible to miss. Keiji was captain and he’d had to keep professional, but he could admit that he was grateful that Bokuto had taken the time to come.
They hadn’t won, but then again, that was expected. They were good, but the bulk of their starting lineup had graduated the year before and Keiji had never been a star player. It was why no matter how much joy he did get from volleyball independently of Bokuto, he wouldn’t go pro. How could he compare to the likes of Kageyama Tobio, Miya Atsumu, or Oikawa Tooru? He wasn’t a genius setter and that was fine. He’d just pursue other ambitions.
Still, it was a point of pride that he’d been able to lead his team as far into Nationals as he did. He hadn’t wanted to leave a legacy he was ashamed of (or that Bokuto would be ashamed of) even if it was just high school volleyball.
Still, he hadn’t expected how good it would be to see Bokuto again. Yes, he’d visited a few times throughout the year but never for long and there was always someone or something calling his attentions away.
Keiji didn’t see himself as a possessive or selfish person, but seeing Bokuto’s attention elsewhere made his chest ache.
Seeing Bokuto cheering him on had been like having the sun come out from behind the clouds after weeks of rain. He’d played harder than he probably ever had before.
Bokuto joined them for their team dinner afterward, clapping his former underclassmen on the back and crowing uproariously. Keiji had spent the entire night tucked into Bokuto’s side and under his arm. It had been like Bokuto had never left and Keiji was happy.
After, Bokuto had returned to his team and Keiji had left the Fukurodani men’s volleyball team to his vice captain. He’d turned his focus to academics and his future.
They both got busy.
Phone calls dwindled but thankfully didn’t vanish. He didn’t want to admit it, but Bokuto had kind of become his lighthouse in the dark sea. But every time Bokuto was more distant, Keiji’s chest hurt. Still, he didn’t think of it all that much. Keiji just got attached quickly and Bokuto was one of the only ones he really had left.
He had continued to brush it off right up until the routine phone call with Bokuto.
“Akaashi—!”
Bokuto’s voice was as loud and boisterous as ever, requiring Keiji to hold his phone away from his ear. “Bokuto-san, what have I told you?” He could hear the pout in the owl-like man’s voice.
“Not to scream into the phone…”
Keiji sighed, but was unable to repress a small, fond smile at Bokuto’s antics. It was nice to know that he hadn’t changed much. “You sound excited. Did something good happen?”
“You know I love my team’s current setter, but word is that Miya Atsumu sighed on with the Jackals!”
Bokuto sounded not unlike an excited child when he reported this fact to Keiji. “Oh?” he said, rubbing a hand against his sternum in an attempt to ease the sudden tightness.
“Yeah! I’ve been wanting to hit some of his tosses forever! He’s a genius.”
“Sounds like it’ll be a lot of fun,” Keiji replied, leaning away from the receiver for a moment to let out a light cough.
He didn’t know why finding out about Miya Atsumu was making him feel so… tense. Miya Atsumu was an amazing setter able to push his spikers to even greater heights than they might have though themselves capable of. It was also true that Bokuto had been whining to Keiji about hitting Miya Atsumu’s tosses ever since he’d burst onto the volleyball scene like a comet with his twin. It wasn’t surprising that Miya Atsumu would go pro after high school. It wasn’t even surprising that he’d been signed before he even graduated. Miya Atsumu was lauded as the best high school setter in the country, although Kageyama had been giving him quite the run for his money.
He was never going to toss for Bokuto in a game again. He hadn’t truly tossed for him in over a year. He’d thought that he’d made peace with that. He wasn’t going pro and he’d never been entertained the possibility of doing so.
He’d thought that it was fine. Everything was fine.
So why couldn’t he breathe?
“Hey, are you feeling okay?”
Bokuto’s voice rang out al tinny from his phone speaker and he hurried to bring it back to his ear.
“I’m fine,” he hurried to reassure his… friend. “I think I’m just coming down with something.” He felt the very distinct tickle in the back of his throat that told him he was about to cough and hack and he moved the microphone away from his mouth again.
He couldn’t remember doing anything that would make him sick. He hadn’t gotten caught in the rain or been near someone who got sick. It wasn’t flu season.
This coughing round was worse than the last, and it left him hacking rather wetly for a few moments.
“—don’t sound good.”
He distantly heard Bokuto’s voice.
“If you’d told me you were sick I would’ve waited to call so you didn’t have to use your voice.”
“I didn’t realize that I was sick,” he said, his voice already surprisingly hoarse. Bokuto sounded concerned.
“Akaashi~ You need to rest, not be spending your time talking to me.”
‘I like talking to you’ is what Keiji wanted to say but didn’t. He knew that Bokuto wouldn’t make fun of him if he did — he’d probably find it really sweet and love it if Keiji was more forward with his affection — but the words seemed to get stuck in his chest. They always seemed to get stuck in his chest.
He was not a man of many words. He was quiet, and Bokuto had always done the majority of the talking between the two; at least verbally. He wasn’t good at talking about how he felt.
“You need to take care of yourself. I’ll call you next week so get some sleep!”
Bokuto’s voice was so certain. He just declared something and then it was reality. He was just like that. So charismatic and confident. Keiji wouldn’t be surprised if he gained even more infamy in the athletic world in the next few years now that he had a greater audience. He was addictive, infectious.
Oh. Keiji’s ears were greeted with the dial tone. Bokuto must have hung up when Keiji made some wordless noise that he interpreted as a confirmation.
His chest seized again.
Temporarily forgetting his phone, he stumbled from his bed, hacking all the way. He had no idea how he’d gotten this sick or why it had set in so fast. All he knew was he was coughing so hard he couldn’t breathe.
He spent a few long minutes gripping the counter beside the sink with a white knuckled grip as he tried to cough up an entire lung apparently. Nothing but spit and tears left him, but at least he hadn’t thrown up.
He’d thrown up once during a training camp and it’d taken him out for the rest of the day. He was a sympathy puker, and apparently that extended to his own puking because he just kept going even when it was nothing more than bile.
If this was the kind of sickness where he threw up, then he was just going to be done. Game over.
Bokuto wasn’t there to brush his hair hair away from his face, so really, what was even the point?
Then finally he felt something at the back of his throat. One big cough later and it was finally in the sink.
He took a pause, the force of his diaphragm finally calming down enough to let him rest. He just stood there for a long while, eyes closed, as he caught his breath. When he felt like he had enough oxygen again, he looked at what he’d coughed up.
He’d expected it to be something gross like phlegm or even something concerning like blood. Sure the saliva that came with what he coughed up was a little pink, but with how hard and how long he’d been coughing, he was honestly surprised it was just that.
No, what he’d coughed up was even worse. It was a single flower petal.
Wet and plastered to the porcelain sink bowl, it was still obviously a small orange flower petal.
Robotically, he washed the petal down the sink and wiped off his chin. Far quicker than when it came, all evidence of its existence was gone. He stumbled back to bed and fell asleep, exhausted.
He sat in his denial for a while. Denial was easy. He was good at it.
It was easy because Keiji was a very private man. He kept to himself in university classes unless he absolutely had to work with people on group projects. Then, he was cordial and polite, keeping his involvement strictly business focused. Some would call him cold, but really, Keiji had always had a hard time connecting with people. It wasn’t like he’d had many friends in high school either. At least not many that weren’t insane volleyball players.
It was a lot of effort, getting close with classmates he probably wouldn’t see again after his 4 years were up. He might not even see them throughout the rest of his time studying depending on what their majors were.
He still chatted with Kenma and some of the other setters that were somehow linked to Kageyama. He even occasionally saw Kuroo running around the university. If he thought he had a busy schedule, well, it had nothing on the insanity that was Kuroo’s. Not only was he double majoring in business and chemistry of all things, but he was still playing volleyball with the university’s team and leading another club. Keiji had no idea how he found the time to do all that and still be one of the most social people that Keiji knew.
It wasn’t like Keiji didn’t have things to occupy his time. He was a very dedicated student with an overloaded course load. It made it really easy to just… ignore the issue.
He wasn’t playing volleyball anymore so noticing any deterioration in his physical state just… went unnoticed. He really only did the bare minimum in terms of exercising. It was also conveniently the busy season for pro volleyball, so Bokuto had less time to call him.
At first, this meant less thinking about Bokuto and therefore less time aching for him. This is theoretically good.
But as more time passed, his ability to pretend he was fine with how things were deteriorated more and more. He began to anxiously wait for Bokuto’s now weekly calls. He thought about him more throughout the time spent between calls, wondering what he was doing, if he was happy. He wondered how Miya Atsumu was adjusting. Probably went off without a hitch. It was Miya Atsumu and he was amazing. Bokuto even raved to him a few times about how cool his sets and pinch serves were.
He always hurried to assure Keiji with some phrase like ‘but your tosses will always be the best, Akaashi!’ but Keiji couldn’t help but internalize it.
He was not in the habit of being stupid, so despite the fact that he was pretty comfortable in his denial, so he wasn’t oblivious to the fact that he clearly wasn’t normal about Bokuto.
In his defense, Bokuto had never once been normal about a person a day in his life. How could Keiji be expected to?
On the other hand… Keiji really wasn’t normal about Bokuto. He was… kind of in love with him. That much would be obvious even if it weren’t for the increasing number of petals appearing.
‘Appearing’ was a very generous term. Like that first petal, they ‘appeared’ through a series of way strong coughs that left him panting and collapsing on the tiled floor of his bathroom. He’d definitely spent more time cleaning the bathroom since this all started.
There was only so many times you could cough so hard you almost threw up and still pretend all was well.
Well. It was nice while it lasted.
After he’d started hacking up handfuls of petals to the point where he now had to trash them or risk clogging his sink, it’d been pretty undeniable that he’d contracted hanahaki. It was also pretty obvious that it was for Bokuto because A. who else could it be for? and B. his attacks usually happened after his weekly Bokuto calls.
Because hearing how wonderful Bokuto’s life without him was was apparently a trigger. Who could have guessed?
He hadn’t told anyone. Part of him asked ‘who would I tell?’ even though he knew he still had people. He still kept in fairly good contact with Kenma and as much as the other could seem standoffish and like he didn’t care about anyone that wasn’t Kuroo or Hinata, Keiji knew that he would listen. Hell, even Kuroo would listen if Keiji asked to talk. As much as Kuroo could match Bokuto’s energy, when he was on his own, he was quieter like Keiji. He was a good listener. They talked more in high school, but he wasn’t the kind of person that would hold that against Keiji.
He could probably even talk to some of the classmates that he worked with more frequently. He should tell someone. But he just didn’t.
He didn’t want to burden anyone else with this knowledge. Who wants to tell people that they are potentially terminally ill? And it wasn’t even a fair reason like cancer or something. It was something he’d effectively done to himself.
If he told Kuroo, Kenma, or anyone else who had known him in high school, they would immediately know that his feelings were for Bokuto. He was sure that they’d push him to confess under some misguided idea that Bokuto was just as obsessed with him as he was with Bokuto. That would just end miserably for all of them, so there really was no point.
If he told his classmates, it would feel like he was seeking pity. ‘Oh look at me, I’m so sad because someone doesn’t love me back.’ Keiji wasn’t in the habit of attention seeking or even really admitting vulnerability. Plus wouldn’t that be weird? He’s basically a stranger to them and he’s admitting something so personal out of the blue. That would be even worse than telling Kenma or Kuroo.
And finally, he couldn’t tell his family. They thought that the gene had skipped him, that he’d be fine. That he wouldn’t die like his mother. How could he tell them?
Plus he was progressing rather slowly. He should still have plenty of time to gracefully bow out of everyone’s lives. Ironically, while Bokuto’s distance in his life hurt, it was also probably the reason that his illness was progressing so slowly. The less he dwelled on Bokuto and how little of his life he touched, the better or worse it was.
He was sure if he was by Bokuto’s side and eh could see how Bokuto was no longer looking at him despite him still being there. At least now he could pretend that Bokuto no longer watched him because they just weren’t physically around each other. Then it wasn’t Keiji’s fault for no longer being enough now that Bokuto had gotten into the major leagues.
He’d thought he’d been doing a pretty okay job of hiding it from everyone right up until Bokuto showed up at his dorm room.
He was still in full workout gear, his gym bag slung over his shoulder alongside a small backpack. He looked gorgeous, as always. His hair was spikey and windswept like he’d run from the train station to his dorm, but he also wasn’t out of breath because he was a pro athlete. He had a huge smile plastered on his face, his eyes almost squeezed completely shut. Keiji couldn’t resist smiling back softly at the man despite his unexpected presence.
“Bokuto-san,” he said, surprise colouring his tone. “What are you doing here?”
Bokuto laughed brightly, but there was a serious undertone to his voice. “You sounded off when we last called and I wanted to see you.”
Keiji’s chest throbbed. “Ah, Bokuto-san, your schedule—”
“Never too full to prevent me from checking on you.”
Keiji stared at him for a long moment, cheeks heating up before he quickly remembered his manners. “Come in,” he hurried to say. “You can take a shower if you want.”
Bokuto laughed. “Is this your way of telling me I stink?” he joked good naturedly.
Keiji pouted slightly, embarrassed. “Of course not,” he said. He didn’t want Bokuto to think him rude, but there really was no reason for him to be anxious because like always, he brushed off Keiji’s awkwardness like it was nothing.
“I’ll shower real quick then,” he said easily, dropping his gym bag by the door and toe-ing off his shoes.
Keiji swallowed thickly, hand unconsciously reaching up to rub soothing circles into his sternum. He nodded even though Bokuto had long since walked past Keiji and couldn’t see him. He already knew the layout of Keiji’s dorm room — this wasn’t the first time he’d visited, although this was the first time that was so unannounced. The last time had been shortly after he’d moved in. Bokuto had wanted to see both him and Kuroo, and the timing had worked out. Still, it’d been some time since then, and it wasn’t like they video called.
Keiji had always preferred phone calls to video calls, and texting to phone calls. It was what let him lay on his bed with his phone on speaker and stare at the ceiling. That or get chores done so he could pretend he was busy and that there wasn’t a gaping Bokuto-shaped hole in his life.
He heard the shower come on and he busied himself with tidying up what he could. He knew that Bokuto wouldn’t care. Bokuto himself was quite the disaster and an oblivious one at that. He would never comment on Keiji being a mess. Well, at least Keiji was mostly confident in that fact.
He just couldn’t stand the idea that Bokuto would see him as anything less than perfect. He wasn’t perfect. He knew this; Bokuto knew this. He knew Bokuto knew this. Still, he needed to be this… mature and well put-together person in Bokuto’s life. He couldn’t just… reveal that he’d fallen apart in the months since he’d stopped orbiting Bokuto.
That meant having a clean dorm room and preparing tea. He set the kettle to boil in the small kitchenette in his unit and moved all of the miscellaneous papers from the table into a school bag. By the time the shower had shut off, Keiji was confident he’d hidden any potential signs of disarray (despite how quick Bokuto’s shower was).
He came out, ruffling a towel through his wet hair. This was not the first time he’d seen Bokuto post-shower — he had been on a sports team with him for a few years — but the sign still sent a pang through Keiji’s chest. It was just so domestic. Bokuto was dressed comfortably and soft, and he looked like he belonged in Keiji’s dorm room. He rubbed at his chest again.
“Do you have any sencha?” Bokuto asked almost absentmindedly as he took a seat in one of the two chairs at the table.
Keiji brought over the hot water and the tea leaves. “Of course,” he responded, avoiding looking at Bokuto by focusing on his task. “It’s your favourite.”
He could hear the bright smile in Bokuto’s voice. “Thank you, Akaashi!”
Keiji hummed, pouring the tea and taking a seat across the table from Bokuto. They were quiet while they waited for the tea to cool enough to be drinkable.
“Have you been eating?”
Keiji froze before attempting to play off his reaction by taking a sip of tea. He hadn’t burnt the leaves.
“Of course.”
He hadn’t been expecting Bokuto to ask him such things, especially not out of the blue.
“You look like you’ve lost weight,” Bokuto told him gently. His voice was oddly subdued — something just out of character enough that it made him nervous. He wasn’t used to Bokuto being so… solemn. It didn’t feel right.
“Have I?”
It was true that Keiji had lost weight, but he hadn’t thought that it was so obvious.
He just hadn’t had all that much appetite. With the way he’d been coughing, he’d ended up losing enough meals to make the idea of eating somewhat unappealing. Food didn’t taste quite right anymore either. More often than not, the taste of blood lingered on his tongue, souring what meals he did manage to scarf down. His meals had started to shrink in size too. It was just more convenient. He was spending less money on food and less time preparing it. It wasn’t like he really had to keep up a figure for anything. He wasn’t an athlete anymore and he didn’t even make it out to the gym on a regular basis.
He wore comfy clothes, and if given the choice between sleep or eating, he’d choose the extra hours of sleep.
“Yeah,” Bokuto hummed. “Your wrists are more frail and your face is more… hollow.”
Keiji took another sip of tea, suddenly very conscious about how his sweater hung off his frame and made him look even skinnier.
“I hadn’t noticed.”
Bokuto tilted his head to the side. “Kuroo told me that you weren’t looking very well when he’d seen you last and I can see why he’d mention it.”
Keiji frowned, his eyebrows scrunching together. “Kuroo-san talked to you about me?”
Bokuto nodded. “He said he wasn’t able to talk to you — you were very busy running around. Always seemed to be in a rush.”
“My schedule is full,” he shrugged. “I didn’t even know I ran into Kuroo-san.”
Bokuto was quiet for a long moment. “Are you doing okay? You didn’t use to look so sick even when you were stressed about school.”
Keiji coughed delicately into his fist before responding. “I’m fine,” he lied. “I suppose maybe the stress of schoolwork is just getting to me a bit more than I’d realized.”
Bokuto frowned, evidently not wholly satisfied with Keiji’s answer. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right Akaashi?”
“Bokuto-san,” he said. “I promise I’m fine. I’ve just been a little under the weather lately. I didn’t think it was worth worrying anyone over when it’ll pass in a few days.”
Bokuto looked at him with an expression that was decidedly unfamiliar to Keiji. It was serious and calculating. Close to small flickers of an expression that he’d only seen once or twice during a challenging moment in a game. Still, even those glimpses paled in comparison to the look on his friend’s face in this moment.
He’d always held some pride about how well he knew the wing spiker. He’d always been the one that others went to to decode Bokuto. He was the one who had spent hours cataloguing every single Bokuto mood in order to understand and manage him. But here he was; confronted with a face and mood that he did not understand. Somewhere in the last few years, Bokuto had grown and changed.
And Keiji had not been privy to these changes.
It hurt — far worse than he was expecting; far worse than it had a right to. He still knew Bokuto, he just didn’t know all of him any more. This single look — one so fitting on the older man’s face — was enough to send a spasm though his lungs as the flowers there grew agitated at the very clear evidence that Keiji’s place in Bokuto’s life was no longer central.
Had never been central.
He couldn’t really suppress the deep cough his mental spiral had incurred. He did his best to delicately cough into a tissue he’d grabbed, but it still sounded wet and forceful.
“Some cold.”
“Bokuto-san.”
Bokuto looked at him for a few moments more, that strange expression never wavering. Keiji could see the moment that Bokuto decided to concede to Keiji’s stubbornness and drop the issue. He didn’t do a very good job at hiding his own relief at that fact and he knew Bokuto clocked it.
“Alright, but please look after yourself.”
Keiji laughed softly. “Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” He glanced down, fixing his eyes on the table. He couldn’t look at Bokuto’s face any longer.
“Maa, Akaashi,” Bokuto said. But it wasn’t in the whining way that he used to. It was more mature. “I’m still your senpai. It’s my job to look out for you.”
Keiji took a sip of his tea, continuing to avoid Bokuto’s gaze. He’d never been good at holding it even when he hadn’t been slowly succumbing to his feelings and the flowers growing in his lungs; when he was still used to Bokuto. “We’re not in school anymore.”
Bokuto’s laugh was deep and smooth. “Doesn’t mean I can’t still look out for you.”
“Switching roles?” Keiji raised an eyebrow semi-playfully.
“I’ve grown,” Bokuto responded easily. “You don’t need to worry yourself about looking after me anymore. Your priority always should have been you anyways.”
Keiji’s grip tightened on his mug. “How has the season been, Bokuto-san?”
He knew that the conversation switch wasn’t wholly subtle — who was he kidding, he was as subtle as a brick to the face. He just couldn’t keep going with this. He couldn’t keep going with this. He couldn’t deal with being forcefully confronted with the fact that Bokuto cared. Because he knew he cared, but it wasn’t in the way that he wanted him to, the way he needed him to. His voice was hoarse, the rawness of his throat returning with the ache in his lungs.
“Keiji.”
Keiji couldn’t stop himself from jolting at the sound of Bokuto saying his first name. His head jerked up until he was meeting Bokuto’s eyes and then he completely froze. Bokuto had never once used his first name.
Maybe it was something silly, to be so fixated on the use of his first name. It wasn’t like no one ever used it. Kenma, for example, had a distaste for formality so in third year, Keiji had told him that eh could just use his first name. After forming a closer relationship with Kuroo in university, he sometimes used his given name as well. But Bokuto had never used it, not even when they’d spent practically all of their time together. The most familiar he got was dropping honorifics.
Keiji couldn’t really blame him either; what with how he never wavered in his usage of ‘Bokuto-san’, but he was the younger of the two parties in this situation. He didn’t want to overstep. He didn’t want to assume how close they were. It would just make him feel more insecure and embarrassed.
Bokuto didn’t shy away from Keiji’s wide-eyed gaze. “You’re not okay,” he said definitively. “You’re so thin. Have you been eating?”
Keiji’s jaw worked soundlessly. “Bokuto-san—”
Bokuto shook his head. “You know you can call me ‘Koutarou’,” he interrupted. “You’re still so formal even after all these years.”
Keiji swallowed thickly, his saliva clinging to his throat. “Koutarou-san,” he tried on his tongue. “I’m really doing alright.”
“You look sad.”
Keiji was once more at a loss for words. “I’m not sad,” he lied. Bokuto’s gaze was piercing.
His gaze softened. “I wish you would realize that you don’t have to do everything on your own,” Bokuto said softly.
Keiji didn’t know what to say. His breath was thin as his chest swelled with emotion. He chose to remain silent.
“You don’t have to talk about it now, but please let me take care of you this weekend.”
Keiji finally tore his gaze away from Bokuto. He slowly deflated, shrinking in on himself. He was so tired. Was it really so awful and selfish if he were to accept Bokuto’s doting? Was he greedy to grasp any scrap of Bokuto’s affection with both hands? He was tired of the cold. He was just tired.
“Okay,” he whispered.
And the pains in his chest eased just slightly.